


There May be a Meteor Shower

by Exorbit



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Romance, Fluff, M/M, Sick Keith (Voltron), Snowed In
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-07 17:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14085918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exorbit/pseuds/Exorbit
Summary: Figuratively speaking, Shiro introduces himself while he is taking Keith's pants off.Or, Keith gets caught in a nasty storm and Shiro is his unsuspecting host.





	1. Chapter 1

Winter is not Shiro’s primary concern.

For anyone else that dejection would be concerning; the stack of snow outside speaks volumes. _BLIZZARD WARNING_ has been flashing on his television and has been texting his phone.

But see, here’s the thing: it’s only been three days since a stranger crashed onto his porch.

That is, a correction: the stranger, whose name he discovered to be Keith Kogane once Shiro dug through his pockets, had crashed his car due to a violent swerve. Town was still several miles off and he had no way to shield himself from the incoming storm.

He had no other choice but to wander. This is the story he tells in his – brief – moments of consciousness.

Presumably he found Shiro’s house by some entity’s grace, and, of course, he promptly fainted on arrival. When Shiro made to clear his front steps of the abject snow, he was greeted with… that. Five feet and thensome nobody with a decent chunk of his height dedicated to the legs. Radiating misery, certain illness and in need of some TLC.

Lest he has to say it; Shiro was doomed.

His immediate reaction was to pull Keith into the house. It was the right thing to do regardless of any malicious intent. Really, that’s assuming Keith could cause any true trouble in such a state. Despite being knocked out, Keith was still shivering and he was cold to the touch. A bath was in order. Several things were in order. Namely, seeing that Keith didn’t die just seconds after Shiro found him. Keith being asleep was not helping matters.

Shiro recalls having tapped his face with a vengeance. One hand bringing down Keith’s wet pants, the other hand near-slapping the same dude. Not how Shiro expected his involuntary indoor barricade to go, but.

“Hey, come on, wake up.” Keith’s head lolled, perhaps gave a slight mumble. “Rise and shine. You gotta get up.”

Keith moaned. Shiro figured that was a good start. “Wake up for me,” he said as he worked, or much more accurately yanked, one of Keith’s legs free. “I’ll draw you a bath as soon as you open your eyes.”

“Christ…”

“Yeah, I know.” There was a new crease in Keith’s face and his lips parted in a sigh. _Five-more-minutes_ type of sigh. “Come on, you’re almost there. It’s nice and dry in here. I have chicken noodle soup?” He added, tone light.

Blearily, Keith’s eyes opened. Unhappily, too, but the heat of his glare was dimmed by just how exhausted he looked. Soaked, run over by his full-body tremors, his cheeks were flushed. “Wherr… where’s here?”

Without thinking, Shiro replied, “Safe. You’re okay now.”

Keith fleetingly pressed a hand to his temple. For the briefest of seconds, Shiro feared that he was going to maroon back into unconsciousness. “Who ‘r you?”

“I’m Shiro.” However reasonably, Keith jolted when Shiro threw his jeans to some unknown corner of his living room. “Sorry! Sorry. But you’re drenched, so I’ve got to get your clothes off.”

Almost self-consciously, Keith drew in his arms in and dug his nails into the creases of his ill-fitting jacket. “It’s freezing…” From the looks of things, as in the lumps that were his hands, Keith was wearing a multitude of gloves. Shiro wouldn’t see them until later, but he only imagine how badly chapped his hands were.

Keith’s soft grunt interrupted that train of thought. “Turn your heater on. Do s’mthin.”

 _My space heater is on_ , Shiro’s mind helpfully supplied. _You’re too cold to even process it_. “Sure – right after… can you lift your arms up for me?”

“Ngh.” Weakly, he did. Shiro tried to not feel too bad as he raised them up higher.

“We’re almost done,” he chimed as if that made the situation any better. “You’ll warm up soon enough.”

Eventually Keith’s clothes were reunited to stay in their sad, soppy section of the living room. To be honest Shiro considered taking off his boxers as well, but there’s a fine line between saving a stranger from certain death and going to third base during introductions.

At least the shivering had stopped.

*****

Three days ago, Keith had swooned on Shiro’s porch looking like he was about to greet Death as an old friend.

Currently he’s bundled up in the second-best snuggest sweater and pant combo Shiro could find. It was a far cry of itchy fabric and a poorly sewn-in heart although the grimace on Keith’s face when he saw what he was wearing would claim otherwise.  

The cozy bedside dresser had all been given up for Keith. Usually it had some snack of sorts on it, typically water and broth in the afternoon substituted for hot chocolate and plain cookies in the evening. Mornings were out, definitely – Keith Kogane is firmly nocturnal.

It seems a bit much. Admittedly, it kind of is a bit much. Throughout Shiro has made an effort to not learn so much about this freeloader, but… Keith's a guest. A fantastic one, compared to previous experiences.

They probably fit so well due to two reasons. One, the ongoing storm kept Shiro from any and all forms of work. Awesome. Two, despite rewarmed and decently comfortable or maybe _because_ of it, Keith was generally asleep. Not great, for Shiro’s anxiety.

As the days went by it seemed less like a haring of death and more proclaiming of how sick he was. Which was obvious already; prior to being firmly snowed in Shiro suspected he had enough tissues to last a lifetime. If Keith ever heard this, he’d break a lung laughing.

Oddly enough, Shiro cherished Keith’s wakeful moments. He stopped asking where he was, cementing the idea that Shiro’s ceiling was a familiar sight. Usually he asked more about Shiro, among the lines of what he does for a living, why he took in Keith, _the array of pre-packaged food cues me into the fact that you can’t cook_.

“Seriously,” Keith said, mouthing around a sniffle. “Or is your oven not working?”

“That would be correct,” Shiro lied. “When the snow dies down, maybe it’ll go back on or something.”

In the middle of Shiro’s sentence, Keith reached for the last of the tissue and blowed his nose obscenely. “Ugh. Well, thanks anyway. I don’t know what I would have done if…”

Which Shiro hadn’t wanted to comment on beforehand. Because this side of the country knew about the blizzard for basically weeks, mumblings in the beginning and crystal clear warnings as it approached.

“It’s okay,” he reassured to a non-reassured looking Keith. “Really. You focus on getting better, and I’ll teach you the virtues of preparation later.”  

Keith huffed something that might have been a _hah_. Shiro couldn’t be sure, as his eyes slid closed only a moment after.


	2. Chapter 2

Keith’s fever breaks astoundingly fast.

Which, is good. This is progress. Gone are the days of swelter with the sheet, human popsicle without. Quite a number of tissue boxes were sacrificed for this ordeal. Daily things of broth; many discarded cans of soup.

So much soup.

_So_ much soup…

If, in his life, Shiro ever smells chicken again it’ll be too soon.

With the end to his delirium, Keith is quasi-independent. Instead of having to rely on Shiro picking up on his ( blatantly obvious ) tells, Keith moves the sheet whenever he wants. Albeit there are sad occasions due to Keith now possessing proper hand-eye coordination. The tissues begin to disappear at a startlingly high rate. Sometimes, he’ll join Shiro in the kitchen, which would be nice if he wasn’t catlike. Without fail, Keith’s silent entry scares the shit out of Shiro.

Nevertheless he’s miles from a full recovery. The both of them know it; Shiro in rationality, Keith begrudgingly. Keith seemingly attests that this is all wrong; he shouldn’t be spending his days bedridden in a stranger’s house.

To which Keith complains, “It’s not like that.” He’s now suffering from a continuously clogged nose, so it sounds more _like ids not like dat_. “I should’ve known.”

“Would’ve, should’ve,” could’ve, but that’s beside the point. “Thinking about what could have happened is only going to distract you. Count your blessings.”

Unfortunately for Shiro, his well-meaning intention comes across as a question. Keith’s eyes narrow. Maybe in perfect health it would make the strongest of men quake in their boots. As he is, sweaty, grievously snotty, with his dark dark dark hair splayed in all directions – he’s an epitome of misery. A testament to barely withstanding amass cruel and unusual punishments.

It’s nearly –

_Shirogane, no_ , he pleads with himself –

Cute. It _is_ cute.

“’m going to help,” Keith declares, indisputable. Indisputable, by the newfound glint in his eye that probably isn’t the result of fever’s aftershock. “At least let me do that. I can clean.” As an – innocent – afterthought, he adds, “I can cook.”

“Deal,” Shiro says. He tells himself it’s the last part, the magic culinary ability, which has swooned him so. A dark recess of his mind snorts and buckles in.

Ahead; ahead is a long ride.

*****

Upon being released from the bed’s hold, Keith Kogane is standing. It is Bambi on ice.

Skidding doesn’t happen, not quite, but it’s a near thing by how he skirts away from the bedframe. It happens regardless of his white-knuckled grip on the dresser. His expression is fearful, followed by loathing.

Because the slip isn’t entirely on Keith. He is wearing socks, very fuzzy and patterned socks. Fuzzy and patterned socks designed to trap all heat within. They’re not shoes, but Shiro’s fixture is so intense that he has to hold himself back lest he ask, _what are those?_

This time, Shiro does shrink under Keith’s half-hearted glower. While the heat on Keith’s cheeks is either from embarrassment or his running cold, Keith’s gaze darting elsewhere cues him into the first. Neither of them make eye contact when Shiro runs one arm under Keith's armpit, and lifts. Their shaky, odd steps makes Shiro reminisce about the sporadic cha-cha slide practices in primary school.

_Almost over_ , he reminds himself. _Almost free_. One of the house's selling points was the proximity of the bathroom to Shiro's bedroom of choice. Once Shiro trusts Keith’s recalibrating center of gravity, Shiro helps Keith lean on the nearest wall.

Keith rights himself, somewhat. On monkey-brain instinct, Shiro asks, “Can you make it?”

Instantly, he slaps himself on the forehead. Keith makes a noise that’s kind of a chuckle, kind of a groan, kind of a call for emergency. It’s bad. Shiro wants to die.

“Uh,” he coughs. “That was weird.”

“Yeah. No kidding. I have no idea where that came from, I’m sorry.”

Keith shrugs one shoulder, much more accurately raises it and sets it. “My friend Lance tells me to be safe whenever I tell him I’m going to the bathroom. Nothing I haven’t ever heard before.”

“You get sick often?” Shiro’s eyebrow rises in the joke.

The corner of Keith’s mouth quirks. Genuinely fighting the urge to smile – god. “No,” he says. “He’s just a jerk.”

“Well, I’m not about to wish you good luck. I’ll be in the living room?” His mind tells him, that’s terribly domestic of you to say. So what if it’s cozy, he defends himself _against_ himself; there’s snow on the ground and they’re having hot cocoa nightly. The pair of them left strictly platonic and business-like in the sand by now.

This is fine.

“Okay,” he agrees. But. “Never put those socks on me again.”

“Alright.”

“I know I agreed, but I was barely conscious. What if I cracked my head open?”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Keith's fuzzy heat-trapping socks.](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61-gJ5zG6OL._AC_UL200_SR160,200_.jpg)


	3. Chapter 3

After an afternoon of scavenging, they locate food. It’s in the reasonable vicinity of what Keith considers primarily, edible – _kale, Shiro, really_ – secondly, not horrifically processed – _mac and cheese, more mac and cheese, something in another container that appears to be… canned ravioli? Canned ravi— Shiro, come on, just make lasagna at that point, save some of your dignity_.

To be fair, those weren’t Keith’s exact words. Furthermore, for the sake of accuracy, let the record show – Keith didn’t actually say anything. But the upturn of his nose did all the talking for him.

Meal prep is handled entirely by Keith. Now, Shiro’s unhelpfulness isn’t from lack of trying; every so often he popped his head into the kitchen, rolling over in concern about his guest chef.

Each and every time Keith quickly waved him out, saying it was fine, he had a handle on it, _don’t grab the spoon I need, Shiro, please don’t touch anything_. Basically, Keith suggested that Shiro could burn water.

Which… is unfortunately true, although Shiro can’t fathom how Keith would know that.

Due to being kicked out of his own kitchen, Shiro spends his time sulking. ‘Sulks’ by setting the table with the fancy dinnerware set aside in a cabinet. It’s designated for special occasions, albeit not the type of event his mind is suggesting. Otherwise he’s got half the mind to check in and make sure the amass of steam doesn’t set off the smoke detector.

He manages to stop himself by remembering that, last time he went inside, Keith was very elegantly brandishing a knife.

Of course, Shiro kind of feels really bad for being dead weight. It had been part of their ‘agreement,’ but surely he can do more than make the table pretty. When Keith steps into the fray, Shiro’s apology is on the tip of his tongue.

Keith apologizes first, though. “Sorry, I know that took a bit. Aren’t starving or anything, are you?” 

“Er.” Keith’s expression immediately drops and Shiro shakes his head fast enough that his world spins. “No, no, you’re fine. I just wish I could do more.” Internally, he cringes at how unsure he sounds, but it beats asking _what’s cookin’, good lookin_ ’.

Mindful of the plates in his hands, Keith gives a small shrug. “You’ve made me a lot of, stuff, over the past few days. This is just me giving back… hope you like seafood?”

Shiro leans in. It may be Shiro’s imagination, but it looks like Keith is standing up a bit straighter. “Shrimp with miso butter,” he says, pride rumbling low in his throat. “Real simple, though it’s been awhile since I’ve made it.”

He’s fixated on the goodies before him – it takes a second for Keith’s words to sink in. “I’m sure it tastes delicious.”

“Good, uhm…” Keith’s gaze darts to the door. “I’ve got some garlic bread in the oven right now. Do you eat it with marinara? Because I’ve got that sauce going as well.”

Shiro’s stomach rumbles. All of a sudden, Keith is rather pleased.

In a much more upbeat tone – “Heading that way now. To make sure that it doesn’t burn. I’ll join you when it’s finished.”

His comment of _hey, wait,_ dies as soon as Keith crosses into the kitchen. Eating alone in an un-empty house is… interesting, to say the least, and it’s probably an insult to eat without Keith. But the plate is tempting.

Very tempting.

Shiro is a man who loves his food. Remorsefully he digs in, sparing a moment to silently thank Keith prior.

One bite causes Shiro’s senses to ascend. Take-out, pre-packaged and pre-made food had been his life for months. Rather, had been his whole life once he was out of college. Shrimp doesn’t carry a new, outstanding flavor or anything – it’s a refined taste he hasn’t experienced in years.

He leans back in his chair, a little. Debating of, where to go from here and Shiro startles his own damn self out of thinking with another bite. Involuntary movements and the like. It’s not a small dish or anything, but he kind of wants to take his time so he can eat with somebody else.

Somehow he musters the energy to slow down. Stars don’t shoot across the sky and he isn’t going to declare his forming crush on Keith or anything. Shiro knows he’s cutting it pretty close.

Distantly, Shiro realizes that he’s fucked.

Keith’s second arrival is a bit of a struggle, as the pan is almost bigger than the entryway. He succeeds after some grumbling, which happens to be just enough time for Shiro to school his face into something not resembling moonstruck.

“Useful in size, but annoying,” he huffs. He has tongs in the pan – _tongs_. When did he buy those? Some part of him registers Keith asking him how many pieces he wants.

Yet when he glances to Shiro’s plate, Keith’s eyes widen. Shiro doesn’t get it.

A silent beat, and Keith prompts, “Did it taste okay?” He’s worrying his knuckles down with his other thumb. Oh.

“Keith,” he says, very seriously, in a very serious voice, “if you keep this up I think I’m going to make you stay.”

The joke, lavished upon a staggering amount of context, lands. As expected, perhaps hoped for, Keith grins back.

“You have me ‘til the snow thaws. But after that, you’ll have to fight Lance. If you’ll believe it, he used to pay me to make dinner.”

“I can see why,” the compliment slides off like butter. The responding flush on Keith is a plus. “Are you a chef or something? If you’re not, you should consider it.”

Shiro might have been expecting Keith’s head shake, but. “No… actually, my job is pretty boring.”

“Nothing like search and rescue, then?”

As he sets his own plate, pointedly not taking the portion he deserves, Keith snorts. “Nothing like that. I’m really just a glorified secretary, for an uncle of mine. Part of a family business. How about you?”

“HR for a campus down the road,” forty-three minutes away from his house, on an excellent traffic day. “I mainly work with outreach and sometimes talk with the students who stop by my office. Sometimes I think I’m much more of a counselor than a recruiter.”

“… do you work for Daiba-”

“Yes,” Shiro interrupts. Keith winces in sympathy. “I get that a lot, don’t worry. Sometimes I feel like working for CalArts would come with less prestige.”

“Kind of has an iron fist over the business, huh,” he sighs. “You know my uncle and the dean have been butting heads for years now? At home all I hear is an _us vs them_ situation.”

“You’re kidding. Did he… destroy your uncle, or something?” It’s not Shiro’s intention to make Keith choke on his food and he’s about to form the Heimlich maneuver right before Keith’s coughing stops.

“God – no. If he destroyed my uncle another would one rise in his place. Not to mention, I’d be out of a job, a place to stay… well.” He pinks. “I guess people tend to be generous.”

_You always have a place to stay here_ – “So long as he treats you well, right?”

“Hah. If you ask me, kind of too well. Lays it on pretty thick. If he knew I gave my supplies out, he’d have an aneurysm.”  

“Supplies.” Despite himself, Shiro looks out at the plastered white window in case the apocalypse has broken out. “You mean…”

Keith isn’t making eye contact either. “I was heading into the next town, you know, to wait out the storm. Except I came across this family who couldn’t very well, leave their home, so I might have given them… everything? Everything short of my wallet and my jacket. It was the right thing to do,” and his voice raises an octave, already rearing himself up –

“That was really noble of you.” As Keith blinks, Shiro’s heart erratically beats. Exactly how often does Keith need to defend himself? “Not everyone would have done that,” he adds, lest the silence stretch.  

“Yeah.” One of Keith’s hands raises, encompassing his mouth and his cheeks. “Just, as the right place at the right time. Mostly I hope they’re okay.”

“ – do you want to go see them after? When I drive you back home.”

Even in between his fingers, the smile on Keith’s face is evident. “Sure. I’d like that.”

As the remainder of their meal is spent in quiet, occasional chatter and the click of utensils... Shiro tries not to think too hard about what it will be like, taking Keith back. 

**Author's Note:**

> Should be something short and sweet as it updates.


End file.
